The triumph of heat

Vermont received her first covering of snow, followed by the arrival of a frigid northern wind.

I'm keeping my radiator at 72 degrees when I'm home, and recognize that most people will find that excessive. But the warmth of my home represents more than temperature itself. I'm reminded of the last time I lived in this part of the country, in the servants quarters of a stone mansion that was heated just enough for the pipes not to freeze. The cold was paralyzing, and I spent most of my time at home in bed. 

Heat feels like a triumph. I can't get enough of it. I move my rocking chair closer to the vent. 

Revisiting an old haunt

I know Vermont best in the summer when I study at the Bread Loaf School English. The landscape is lush — verdant mountains, fields sprinkled with Indian paintbrush flowers, dark green mosses covering the rocks along the rivers, wide clearings with tiny flavor-packed low-bush blueberries. I wake up with the sun and get out of bed without hesitation. I go for a long walk almost every morning. 

I wanted to revisit the Robert Frost Trail in fall to see how I felt. I thought I might feel unwelcome, like arriving early to a party and finding the host not fully dressed.

Here's what I saw.

Rather than unwelcome, I felt an intimacy with the place. I know it dressed up in summer splendor and stripped down to rock and branch. Both beautiful.

Frost's October

I'm thinking of Robert Frost's poem "October."

It starts,

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

[...]

This hush has permeated my being. I've been sleeping more, sending letters, taking long slow walks, appreciating the filtered sunlight.

Getting installed

I love my one-bedroom corner apartment with seven-foot-tall windows, but haven't spent much time at home.

A series of trips have taken me away from Burlington throughout the month of August. I've spent time in Rochester and  Essex, N.Y., Putney and Middlebury, Vt., and most recently Quebec.

In anticipation of visitors coming to see me over the next weeks, I hunkered down in Burlington to rest and get a more acquainted with the city where I now live. The timing couldn't have been better because Burlington's South End Art Hop was taking place. The waterfront neighborhood's seemingly defunct warehouses are actually divided into a surprising number of studios, workshops (even a small artisan bagel shop) and sprawling antique stores. For the celebration, the maze of  studios and workshops were opened to the public, bands played, food vendors filled the street and a Ben & Jerry's truck gave away free ice cream.

Here's a picture of me in an installation art exhibit.

Art Hop also spilled over on the central part of Burlington's Waterfront. Overnight, an impressive number of rock sculptures appeared on Lake Champlain's embankment.

Finding the path

I found myself lost in the southern wilds of Vermont yesterday afternoon. To make matters more desperate, my cell phone had died after several hours of snaking around dirt roads and seasonal mountain passes.

My desired destination lay at the end of a little-known mountainside drive named Woodland Path. At the top of that path, my dear friend has a family camp at which she and hers were gathered to celebrate her 28th birthday. 

When she told me to use GPS to find Woodland Path, I had no idea how remote the camp actually was. The area has a verdant ridgy landscape dotted with small towns where business signs tell of wholesome work—Vermont Weaving School, Artisan Pottery and PYO (pick your own) blueberries. I was enchanted and didn't worry much about missing my estimated arrival time by one hour. 

But my worry rose as the sun began to sink. I worried about never being able to find my way out of these uninhabited roads. I worried about keeping my friend and her family waiting for me on her birthday dinner. 

Just before true panic set in, I saw a man walking along the road. He was outfitted like a wholesome Vermonter in Carhart cargoes, Keen sandals and a ponytail threaded through the back of his baseball cap.

I pulled up and asked directions, which he happened to know. A miracle in itself, he told me, because most locals aren't even aware of the subdivision. It just so happened that this man's drum repair guy lived on Woodland Path too. The man patiently gave me directions twice, once with me repeating and the second time while I took notes having realized that it was far too complicated to remember. 

As it turned out, I was about twelve miles from where I needed to be. I arrived shortly before sunset, just as my friend and her father headed down their long driveway to search for me. We almost hit each other.

I had missed the appetizer course, but was in time for the artisanal cheeses, a big glass of wine and the lobster and clam boil.

After dinner, my friend and I soaked in the hot-tub, made from a animal trough outfitted with a wood stove. The stars twinkled and the crescent moon hung high in the dark blue sky. It's a strange thing to go so quickly from being utterly lost to feeling like there is nowhere else you could possibly wish to be.

Oh yes, and I took my job back. That feels right too.

Time passes

Virginia Woolf has a short chapter in her novel "To the Lighthouse" called 'Time Passes'. Many years of slow change get compressed into the shortest chapter of the novel.

My life seems to have done the opposite. Huge changes have taken place in just a few weeks. The short summary is that I got a job as an editor at the Burlington Free Press newspaper in Burlington, Vt., drove myself to there, rented an apartment, and will start work tomorrow.

Here are a few pictures of my new surroundings.

View of the Adirondacks where I used to live from
my new home—Burlington, Vt.

My cozy living room with flowers from a friend.

It's not home until a dress hangs
on the wall.

Pantry stocked.

I hope to resume my weekly blogging. Stay tuned.

Jet lagged in Brussels

This is the fourth day of my Brussels-based conference. I've been far too tired to post anything until now. Considering it's 1:30 a.m., I'll make this quick and try to go back to sleep.

As I leave sunny California

My good friend Kevin and I are traveling (actually waiting in the airport) to return to Missouri after a whirlwind trip to visit my brother Anthony in San Francisco.

In the San Francisco airport

I had a wonderful time exploring the city, eating pastries, shopping and drinking—all in the company of two my handsome companions.

As I leave, I feel certain that this trip was exactly what I needed and also that I am not meant to move to San Francisco after graduation. Anthony is not in a position to move into the city right now; he lives in Palo Alto, which is an hour commute to city's center. I don't want to move to a new city alone, and there are more work opportunities for me in New York than on the West Coast.

I leave California with happy memories and a clearer idea of where I want go.

Poem and picture

Felt heart

By Emilie Stigliani

It used to bang

Against the clapboard

In a wind-whipped

Fray

Until I wedged

A felted scrap

Between the heart &

Hinge

 This softens each blow

‘Cause it sways

No longer

Swings

Off the grid

I've spent several weekends with the off-the-grid community of Maya Creek working alongside them, eating meals and hanging out. This was my final weekend stay. As I drove back to my on-the-grid life Sunday afternoon, I felt incredible gratitude to the residents who have opened up their lives to me. I have learned a tremendous amount and hope to publish something very soon. For now, I'll offer a few pictures of the place.

The outdoor kitchen

Last of the tomatoes

Wild persimmons in the garden

Bed of alpaca wool used to create the right
mushroom growing climate

The 'duplex' that I helped plaster

And Kita (I'm a sucker for dogs)

Communing with a poet

It's been an entire week of attempting but failing to set aside time to write, for myself. I did a lot of writing for my classes; each had an essay due. Still, I've had a nagging urge to pen a little poetry or a short story. The wilderness that surrounds Bread Loaf seems to provide a quiet beauty that stirs my desire for creativity. The problem is that between classes, waiting on tables and spending time with the many interesting people who are also on Bread Loaf Mountain, the days pass and my writing pad remains un-inked.

In lieu of writing, I visited Robert Frost's cabin where he spent the final 40 summers of his life. Each year, Bread Loaf opens the house to its students and throws a picnic. Inside, I examined Frost's cups, orange juicer, icebox (that's really what it was, not a frig) and books. Then I plopped down in Frost's chair and silently petitioned him to send beautiful words to fill my pages. My hope is to carve out time this evening to find out if I was heard.

Frost's cabin on Bread Loaf Mountain

The cabin kitchen

Sitting in Frost's chair

Mountain mornings

I've been at Bread Loaf for just one week, and I've already settled into a routine. This is the kind of place where establishing a routine is easy, or maybe I'm just happy and doing things that I like, which makes it easy to follow.

There's always something to do in the evenings — a reading to attend, a bottle of wine to share on the porch at sunset and a dance on Saturday night. I like those things. But, by 10 p.m., I'm ready to for bed.

I love mountain mornings — the cool air, the sunrise that slowly illuminates the green slopes and the bird songs. I wake up at 5 a.m. and my head feels clear. I've been writing for myself and letters to other people. I've been walking the trails.

A bend in the river
along the Robert Frost Interpretive Trail.

I attribute this rhythm that I've fallen into as the consequence of being deeply satisfied with life.

NYC and Anthony

OK, I lied in my last blog post. My work has not yet started. I actually have almost an entire week before I need to be in Vermont. As I left Iowa, I was anticipating the exhaustion of traveling but seemed to forget that I like traveling and I love New York City.

At 22 years old, I often felt that, while I loved New York, I would never make it there. My brother Anthony spent many of his college vacations visiting me. We would trudge around trying to find cheap things to do. He joined me for a brief reunion to recreate our typical excursion.

Five years later, we both felt like we could take on NYC by the balls. (See the picture below.)

Random tourist taking his turn.

Anthony and I relived one of our marathon walks.
We started at the bottom of the island.

And stopped by my very first apartment.

And C Town where we bought staples —
beans, rice, eggs and sometimes Oreos.

And then Central Park...
we covered a lot of ground.

Goodbye Iowa, hello work

I leave Iowa this week and head East — first to New York and then to Vermont. I'll spend a few days with friends in the City and a week in the Adirondacks with my uncle and aunt. Then, I'll start my summer coursework at the Bread Loaf School of English in Middlebury, Vt.

I'm ready. Almost all my books are read for a seminar on Virginia Woolf and a class on representations of Moors in Renaissance literature. I have one and a half books to go, which I plan to finish while traveling.

I'm also hesitant. Once I leave Iowa, I will be working almost continuously until next Christmas. There's a very short break between Bread Loaf and my fall semester at Missouri. The work will be rigorous. I leave relaxed and rested, with a little regret that my break is drawing to a close.

A field of wildflowers in Marshalltown, Iowa.
I've soaked up as much beauty and sun as I could
 to fortify myself for the coming months.

In the garden

I've been in Iowa for one week during which time I've read four books (11 to go), started knitting another pair of socks and spent lots of time in my mother's garden — it's beautiful right now. My parents, Vincent and I have eaten dinner outdoors every single night.

View of the garden and the table where we eat

Last night we had a bonfire. Vincent built the fire and I made buckwheat graham crackers from scratch. We sat around eating s'mores and talking about authors who have killed themselves, the result of my long afternoons spent reading Virginia Woolf and Vinnie reading John Kennedy Toole's Confederacy of Dunces. Even though this sounds a bit morbid, it really was a lovely night.

Vinnie building the fire

Homemade buckwheat grahams

A log (and a dog) of one's own

This post is titled in honor of Virginia Woolf whose works I will spend the better part of the upcoming month reading, along with a handful of Renaissance plays.

Most of the books I'll be reading.
(Still waiting for some to arrive.)

Classes are done, and so are finals. I only have two more shifts at the Missourian. With the days to myself, I am eager to take Leo for his morning walks and find lovely little spots to sit and read. Currently, I'm tackling "The Waves" and this morning I found a perfectly proportioned reading log close to Stephens Lake's edge. Leo soaked while I soaked in the sun and made headway on my reading.

Time to smell the flowers

Saturday afternoon, I finished the last big project of the semester. Although there is still one week of classes and then a week of finals, my work is done. I am easing into a slower summer pace where I have more choices on how I want to spend my time rather than tackling a list of tasks I have to get done. This evening, I chose to go for a walk and took time to smell and photograph the flowers.

Here are some of my favorites.

Mr. Robin's lesson

THWACK!

That's the sound of a robin hitting the glass door of my bedroom. It's a sound that I'm starting to associate with time to wake up.

I'm not sure why the robin hits the door. At first I thought it was confused by the glass, but I quickly changed my mind. The robin will hit the door bounce back and hit it again. And it keeps going. It will hit the door five or six times, take a little break and return for more. This continues all morning.

Most of the time, I want to tell Mr. Robin (how I refer to him) that he better cut it out. It's annoying and I'm worried that he's going to get some sort of brain damage. Bird brains are small enough as it is. 

But I'm also starting to understand him. I feel a bit like I'm trying to get to the other side of the semester. I'm so close but can't quite make it. At least not yet. There's four weeks left and all the final projects still need to be completed. 

I'm focusing on each day as it arrives and taking my cues from Mr. Robin on what not to do. 

Spring break

I'm not on vacation; I'm on a break.

While many of my classmates have left town, I chose to stay. I picked up some shifts copy editing in the newsroom and have been working ahead on end-of-the-year projects.

Even though this has been a working break, not having classes has allowed me to work half days and spend time hanging out with Claire, getting drinks with friends and taking Leo to the park.

Columbia has had sunny weather in the 80s, and Leo loves to soak in Stephens Lake. Normally, he wades up to his shoulders, faces the breeze and closes his eyes.

Sometimes he walks a little further out, but the moment his front paws can't touch the ground, he reels back.

Today, Claire came with us. She threw sticks toward the middle of the lake. Leo was interested but hesitant.

We encouraged Leo, and he timidly tested a few paddles into the deeper water. Suddenly he was swimming!

He fetched sticks for about 10 minutes and then willingly got out of the water. I usually have to walk out of sight to trick him into stepping out to look for me.

Claire and I walked wet-but-perky Leo home. I have no regrets about staying close.

Grateful for spring

When I woke up this morning, spring had arrived. Just like that. The birds sang. The sun shone. The balmy air smelled damp.

Yesterday, it rained all day, which was irritating but helpful. The semester has picked up. (It's week nine of 16.) So, I used the dreariness as a deterrent from getting out of bed. I spent most of the day curled up under the blankets doing homework. In the early evening, I did pull on my rain pants, boots and coat and took Leo out for a soggy walk. Despite my gear, my face and neck got soaked and poor Leo slunk behind me.

And this morning the world looked different. The grass looked brighter. I took Leo through the neighborhoods, so we could look at blooming flowers. (Well, I looked at them and Leo appreciated them in his way. Let's just say that he saw fit to mark the prettiest ones.)

Another busy week has started, but it all seems more manageable with the promise of sun.

I took my sandals out of storage!